


loose threads

by westminster



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: First Kiss, Haircuts, Hand Jobs, M/M, mild hair kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 01:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20734319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminster/pseuds/westminster
Summary: Q's hair has grown unruly, surpassing the nape of his neck and resting just past his shoulders. In fairness, it has been a long few weeks but Bond's having none of it. It's time to matters into his own hands.





	loose threads

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so excited for bond 25 that I decided to write a little piece for this pairing. i have a couple more ideas for bond fics but whether I get around to writing them slightly depends on the reception for this one, so comments/kudos are greatly appreciated, i really hope you enjoy it...

He had only diverted his eyes from the computer screen once in the last two hours. That was a while ago, when the strain on his eyes had begun to irritate Q, forcing him to look around for the eye drops he had been neglecting taking. _Shit_, he had whispered, he'd left them in the kitchen. Q's brain had helpfully calculated it'd take ten seconds to get them. Ten seconds he didn't have, ten seconds he wouldn't let slip away as he punched the keys with such grandeur that it was a small miracle they were still in tact.

A quick glance at the clock. It's approaching four hours since he began the work and it's beginning to get dark. He swears he'll stop before midnight, swears he'll go to sleep at exactly 12.30 so he'll have the minimum five hours sleep he needs to function at work tomorrow. It's just, well, finishing this bit of code would be so satisfying and he wouldn’t be able to rest if he left it. More tapping. Another quick glance at the clock. 1.00am. Q swears under his breath. His fingers instinctively fly over the keys, convincing himself that he’s so close, so close to finishing if he pushes through this last bit. Q engrosses himself in his work once more, _nearly there. _

A huge crash fills the silence, the sound sneaking in from his bathroom. Q flinches slightly - only slightly - he can probably ignore that, right? It was most likely some unruly brats throwing stones at his window, or perhaps a bird who’d taken a wrong turn. Q shakes his head, trying to will the worries away so he could continue the task at hand.

“Are you fucking serious?” 

Q’s heart fails. He grabs the nearest thing to him, holding it up to the intruder.

“You’re going to take me out with a pen?” 

Q fumbles at the sight of the other man, hands shaking so much it’s a wonder the pen stays in his hand. 

“Bond,” he whispers, because it’s all he can do really, lips tight and head fuzzy. 

“I climbed up a fucking pipe and nearly broke your windowpane and you’re confronting me with _that?_ Are you aware of where you work?”

“Not a pen. A Q branch pen.” 

It’s not, it’s so obviously not but Bond’s never stuck around Q branch long enough to tell a biro from a bomb. Plus, he’s beginning to get a little pissed at how arrogant Bond’s being, what does he expect Q to have? A samurai sword? 

Bond falls for it, holding his hands up in mock-surrender. He means it as a joke, Q finds it condescending. There’s a smile playing at the edges of Bond’s mouth, much too familiar to Q: the smirk that comes before a barrage of taunts. He knows how to deal with this after all these years, and spins his desk chair 90 degrees. He is now unable to see what Bond’s doing to Q’s lovely flat, and normally that knowledge would unnerve him. Now, as his eyes adjust once again the glare of the computer screen, he finds he physically could not care less about Bond’s actions. Q swears he’s going to finish this, going to sleep and completely ignore the MI6 agent in his kitchen cupboards. 

A stillness falls across the room and Q’s beginning to think Bond has left, refusing to turn around as a matter of principle. Just as Q’s shoulders begin to relax and limbs begin to loosen, rough fingers slide through a curl on Q’s head. Q shivers. 

“When was the last time you had this cut?” Bond says. This time it’s not patronising at all, it’s warm, caring and almost parental. No one has touched Q this softly in _years._ He thinks he might cry. 

Large hands thread though his locks, massaging tiny circles at the sensitive points behind his ears. It’s too much for Q, the letters in front of him becoming blurred. It should be impossible for such a violent man to be so gentle. When Q realises he’s leaning into the touch he slaps Bond’s hands away. 

“My hair is fine,” he snaps, poising his fingers back over the keys. He can’t think, can’t get the words on the screen to register in his brain. He also cannot show his vulnerability to Bond, beginning to type a random piece of basic coding robotically, willing Bond to leave. To Q’s surprise he complies, and Q allows himself a small sigh of relief at the sound of retreating footsteps. He deletes the nonsense he had spewed out, and takes up his work once again. 

Twenty seconds. That's all he gets before Bond comes back. Q is terrified when he tears his eyes from the screen to see Bond holding up a pair of scissors. 

"You look like a serial killer," Q quips. 

"Shut up and turn around."

"That's exactly what you'd say if you planned to slit my throat."

"Don't tempt me," Bond threatens but there's a jovial grin on his lips that makes Q feel safe. It's that, in the end, that pushes him over the edge and forces him into compliance. The truth is he trusts Bond - Q doesn't understand why but he does and turns around to begin typing, trying to ignore the other man's actions. _Trusts. Safe._ Q hates himself for using those words, knowing he's playing right into Bond's trap. He knows all too well that the grin in question will have been used on hundreds of gorgeous women. Although the fact unnerves him, it does feel quite nice to be clumped into a group of twenty year old supermodels and rich daughters of foreign diplomats.

Q flinches at the first snip. And at the second. After the third, Bond threatens Q with a skinhead if he doesn't stop moving. There's a faint protest from Q, a mumble about cold hands and sharp scissors. Finally, he goes limp under Bond's touch. Complacency. 

He gets used to the way Bond's fingers comb through his hair, the pressure being applied on his scalp luring Q close to the first brays of sleep. He had finished his work a while ago, unsure of approximations, too scared to check the clock. Q concentrates very hard on the dark strands beginning to pool at his feet, and not at the fact that he can feel Bond's breath on his neck. Bond tugs on a particularly difficult curl and Q finds himself biting back a moan. It's not his fault, Q laments, it’s those gorgeous hands. Dexterous and lithe, made for shuffling through decks and curling around revolvers. – made for resting in between Q’s locks, fitting perfectly against the mould of his skull. Too perfectly. This was written in the stars, Q thinks. He then chastises himself for such an illogical comment. This is a haircut, he corrects. 

The altercation seems to last forever, stretching out as slowly and as sweetly as molasses. Q bows his head and notices that hair is no longer falling. He finds he cannot remember the last time he heard the harsh snip of the scissors. Instead, Bond has been massaging the soft flesh where the skull meets the spine. The most vulnerable part of the human body, Bond had once told him. The skin there is unsullied and sensitive: every time Bond’s fingers move, it gives him shivers. Every fibre of Q’s being is screaming at him to stop, to sleep or to flee. He's dreamt of situations adjacent to this many times before, and every time he forces himself to pair those fantasies with the reality: Bond is a child, his sexual partners are his playthings. This is the reality Q is experiencing. He is not wearing a designer gown, there aren’t pearls dripping from his neck and he smells of sweat and beef crisps. Nevertheless, Bond will discard him just as easily and just as quickly as the strings of lovely little women he’s kept over the years. He will do it without feeling or consideration. He will leave Q with an empty bed and cold sheets. He will feel nothing whilst Q drowns in his emotions.

It doesn’t stop him, though. Q is greedy. Q is greedy and weak and unable to resist temptation when it lies so close. So he leans into Bond’s touch, a small purr slipping from his lips as he tilts his head backwards. Bond pauses, Q thinks he hears the agent's breath hitch but no, that must be wrong. James Bond would not be affected by someone like him. But then Bond's breath gets closer to his neck, warmth seeping through Q's skin, honey flowing through his veins. Q waits for the kiss that never comes, waits for the hesitant touch of lips against skin and is disappointed. Not for long, not until he feels a nose pressed into the nape of his neck and_ is Bond smelling him?_ _God, he should have showered this morning._ All of Q's thoughts slip away as Bond begins to nuzzle his hair, guiding his nose through the freshly chopped curls. Q's brain flat lines, momentarily forgetting how to breath. Bond's arms wrap around the desk chair, slipping a pair of cool hands up Q's jumper. The fingertips fluttering across his ribs feel like heaven and hell-fire all in one. Bond finally leans back and Q feels empty without the contact, though relieved to have some control over his motor functions back.

Then Bond whispers his name.

"Q," he says, the letter leaving his mouth as a desperate plea, soft and needy and vulnerable and all Q's ever wanted to hear from the other man. 

"James," Q replies. The name is said firmly, with commitment. It fits just right on Q's lips, flows much more easily than 'Bond' or '007.' 

Once more he says, "James," just to convince himself that this is real - that the name that hangs in the air most definitely belongs to the other man.

James swivels the chair around, so that the men are now facing each other. Q feels inadequate under James' gaze, unveiled like the world's worst quiz show prize. Bond pulls him up, gripping the strands of hair he's devoted much time to with a grand fervour and smashing their lips together. It begins with force, like every action James takes. It begins with bites and nips, James tugging at Q's bottom lip as he shoves his hands down the back of Q's sweatpants and swallowing every little mewl that comes out of Q's mouth. He tastes like glory.

Q finds himself leading the kiss, setting the pace. He kisses James slowly, romantically, running his tongue over the places he has just bitten. He licks at James' gums, exploring deep into the other man's mouth, trying to catalogue every millimetre. Q falls into James, relinquishing himself to the other man, landing on the chair in a heap of sated limbs. They untangle themselves slowly, grinning through quick pecks. Q ends up straddling James, rutting against him as James sucked a mark into his collarbone. He's so hard, so achingly hard and he gasps as Bond's fingers rub the wet patch that has begun to form on his sweatpants. James strokes him through the thin material and Q thrusts helplessly against his partner's chest, gasping as James continues to lavish his neck with wet, open-mouthed kisses. Q is needy, he has never felt unadulterated want so profusely and so plainly. He scrambles, digging bony knees into James' lap as he fights to remove his pants. It's a struggle, but it is an area James is all too familiar with, clothes seeming to melt away under his touch.

Q's cock is now completely exposed and it doesn't take long before James' strong palms wrap around it, making Q cry out in relief. He can't help but sink his teeth into James' skin, leaving a mark that everyone will see, but no one will guess the perpetrator. The first stroke is excruciatingly slow, and Q thinks he may just die in this moment. Q whines and James picks up the pace, never one to be an underachiever. He strokes Q's cock firm and fast, applying the right amount of pressure, exactly how Q likes it. He's close, too close. The hand leaves his cock and it's like James can read his mind. Q whimpers at the withdrawal, he needs more. He guides James' hands down to cup his balls, groaning at the contact as James bites playfully at his ear.

"Fuck...James...please..." Q groans, unsure of what he's actually asking for except more. More. The sensation of James' fingertips ghosting across his hole is heavenly, making him scream words in an unintelligible language. Q attempts to regulate his breathing and fails, instead choosing to bring his lips back to James'. In turn, James' hand returns to Q's cock once more, stroking it with vigour as Q begins to regain his grasp on the English language. They fall into a steady, pleasurable rhythm, the sound of heavy lust-filled panting filling the room. Q manages to get two coherent words to leave his bruised lips. 'Close' and 'James.' He rides out the waves of his orgasm in a fuzzy haze, gripping onto James' shoulders, burying his yells into James' neck.

When he is finally able to sit up, he blinks back the tiredness that has crept up on him and surveys James' dishevelled appearance. He is exhausted, but aware of the other man's needs. "Here..." he mumbles, the words not sounding quite right as he reaches for James' belt, "let me repay the favour." James swats his hand away and a spike of anxiety shoots through Q. Does James regret this already? But then James is brushing a loose lock of hair from Q's sweaty forehead and wrapping the younger man in a tight embrace. 

"Sleep, sweetheart," James whispers.

Q grins into James' chest, thankful to eventually fall into the depths of sleep. Out of the thousands of endearments Q has seen James employ time and time again on women, the word 'sweetheart' was never used. Perhaps Q is not one of them after all.


End file.
